


forever my love

by flapkack (neverthepast)



Series: flap's unfinished ficlets [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Character Study, Established Otabek Altin/Yuri Plisetsky, It's Soft, M/M, Memories, Not Beta Read
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-10-13 08:29:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20579525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neverthepast/pseuds/flapkack
Summary: “Do you know,” Otabek breathed, accented, against Yuri’s collarbone as he splayed his fingers across the small of his back and pressing their chests together, “how long that I have loved you, Yuri?”The blonde let out a heady sigh and tilted his head, allowing Otabek more access. He gently ran his knuckles through Yuri’s silky hair, pushing it behind his shoulder and tracing his lips along the sharp line of his collar. He brought a hand to the back of Otabek’s head, lightly scratching his fingers against the brunette’s scalp.“I think,” Yuri replied breathlessly, “but you should tell me anyway.”Otakbek smiled against his skin._an unfinished work





	forever my love

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this in 2017 and ive accepted that i will never finish it lmao

“Do you know,” Otabek breathed, accented, against Yuri’s collarbone as he splayed his fingers across the small of his back and pressing their chests together, “how long that I have loved you, Yuri?” 

The blonde let out a heady sigh and tilted his head, allowing Otabek more access. He gently ran his knuckles through Yuri’s silky hair, pushing it behind his shoulder and tracing his lips along the sharp line of his collar. He brought a hand to the back of Otabek’s head, lightly scratching his fingers against the brunette’s scalp. 

“I think,” Yuri replied breathlessly, “but you should tell me anyway.”

Otakbek smiled against his skin.

_

Otabek was thirteen, and he was angry. He was angry and sad and scared and- disappointed. He had let them down- his parents, his country- and he wasn’t good enough. Yakov Feltsman, the stocky Russian who Otabek couldn’t imagine as a not-so-kindly truck driver, let alone a figure skating coach, had taken one look at him and decided that he wasn’t good enough. 

And, God. What if he wasn’t.

What if he wasn’t. 

He slunk into the so-called novice class with a newly-tender heart and frustratingly stinging eyes, blinking furiously to keep his tears at bay. A line of children, some looking to be as young as seven, were lined up by height at the ballet barre, the weak Russian sun filtering through the dirty glass window of the grey-walled studio. Torturously slow classical piano music was blaring over an ancient surround-sound system as the students stretched their legs into four-count développés.

It smelled like feet. 

The instructor, a squat, severe-looking woman with her grey hair pulled into a tight bun, was clapping to the beat and shouting what Otabek assumed to be ‘one, two, three, four’ in Russian.  
The skaters turned at the barre and one particular boy caught his eye. He was three from the ‘tall’ end, had a bowl cut, and brought his foot ten centimeters higher than the others with each and every kick. His jaw was set, his lip was pouted, and his crystalline green eyes were steeled and determined. 

Otabek was shocked out of his staring by the sound of loud Russian shouting in his general direction. He jumped and looked towards the instructor. Her watery grey eyes were set on him and she pointed to the barre, gesturing wildly at Otabek. He began walking towards it, and jerked and started jogging in earnest when he heard a loud ‘CLAP’ behind him. He squeezed in behind the tallest child, feeling another wave of humiliation come over him as he observed the seven centimeter height difference between the boy and himself. 

Otabek looked up the line of hands. The blonde boy’s knuckles were white as he gripped the cool wood with all of his might.

Otabek lifted his foot into a back battement.

His toe slammed into the wall.

He kept going.

_

“I first laid eyes on you, Yuri, when I was thirteen.” Otabek mumbled, kissing his way up the blonde’s neck, drinking in his scent- lavender, sweat. 

“Mmm, yeah, I know,” replied Yuri, pushing impatiently against Otabek, trying his best to move them towards the hotel room’s bed. 

“Yakov and all that.” 

Otabek took a step around the smaller man and slid his hands down to rest against his ribs. He held Yuri like a treasure, like a precious, beautiful ornament. He moved Yuri’s hair, kissed his other shoulder.

“Come on, Beka,” murmured Yuri, “you won’t break me.”

“I know,” he said, stepping them both forward and running a single finger down Yuri’s spine.

“You’re a soldier.”

Yuri shivered.

Moonlight filtered through the massive window. The stars were barely visible against the Vancouver skyline.

Yuri turned, crowded up against Otabek, and brought their lips together; gentle, firm.

_

It was Otabek’s sixteenth birthday, and he was sitting in a Starbucks, headphones in, willing his ESPN stream not to crash as he watched Yuri Plisetsky glide onto the ice. It was the thirteen-year-old’s first year in the junior international divisions, and he was exceeding the whole world’s expectations. Commentators sang the praises of his skating, his extensions, his facials, saying that one day, maybe, Plisetsky could surpass the great Nikiforov himself.

He was also rumored to be quite the little shit. 

Yuri was performing his free skate today, and even through the jerky, pixellated stream, Otabek sensed a palpable determination about the Russian boy. 

The blonde was dressed in a baby blue bodysuit with sprinkles of white sequins scattered all over; his bangs were swept to the side and fastened in the back. He looked like an ice statue, or a tiny glass ballerina. 

The music started, and he began. 

Otabek couldn’t help but scoff when he heard the twinkling notes that signaled the beginning of “Dance of the Sugarplum Fairies.” It did Yuri a disservice, he thought, to pick a song so stereotypical, so overused, for his junior debut. 

He had watched Yuri for a whole summer. He knew- Yuri was far from typical.

Yuri launched into a step sequence.


End file.
